Favre pushes him hard into the wall and Aaron bucks up against him, knotting his fingers in the back of Favre’s t-shirt. They’ve had this fight before. Favre pokes fun at Aaron’s hair or his lifestyle, or Aaron calls Favre an inbred hick or something, and then-- just like that-- the two of them are wrestling, each grappling for the upper hand and neither giving an inch.
Aaron’s younger, young enough to technically be Favre’s son, so he figures he should be able to overpower Favre fairly quickly. But Favre is the veteran, he’s cagey, clever and blocks all of Aaron’s moves with the sort of ease he shows on the gridiron.
Favre gets his fingers in Aaron’s shaggy hair and twists, pushing him back against the wall with a solid thud, and Aaron grabs onto his arm, digs his fingers in and hopes he leaves marks. There’s a brief lull and they lock gazes, breathing hard.
“You even remember what we were fightin’ about?” Favre asks, quiet.
Aaron manages to pry Favre’s fingers open and works them of his hair. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head and running his hands through it.
“Y’look like a girl,” Favre grumbles, putting his hands on his hips.
Aaron watches through his curtain of hair. Favre’s neck is shiny with sweat and he fights the urge to lick it off. “Fuck you.”
“You wish.” Favre flashes Aaron a smug smirk and squares his shoulders.
Aaron’s supposed to say something like Wouldn’t touch your ass with a ten foot pole, or What’s the opposite of cradle robbing, like he usually does when Favre makes comments. The words don’t come, though. Aaron pushes his hair out of his face and tilts his chin up, meeting Favre’s steady gaze.
Something changes, shifts across Favre’s face when Aaron doesn’t back down, deflect his gaze like he usually does. He reaches out and Aaron stiffens slightly, then relaxes when Favre rests a hand on his shoulder.
“I really, really don’t get you,” Favre says, rubbing his thumb on the frayed collar of Aaron’s old Joe Montana t-shirt.
“Don’t get you so much either,” Aaron replies.
“You’re crazy,” Favre says, “outta-your-mind, batshit insane.”
“And you always seem to be hanging around,” Aaron says. “What’s that make you?”
“Crazier.” Favre grins, showing teeth.
Aaron feels Favre move closer and he leans in. Favre tightens his fingers in the shoulder of Aaron’s tattered old t-shirt and tugs him forward, and then they’re not kissing so much as their mouths are colliding, and Aaron can feel the material of the old t-shirt give way in Favre’s fist as he thumps into his chest.
Favre worries his teeth on Aaron’s bottom lip and, inexplicably, Aaron wants him to bite through skin, wants him to draw blood. He presses back against Favre and hopes that he’ll get the hint.